Lines

The painter sees,
The writer hears,
The lover whispers.

The addict snorts,
The ballerina contorts,
The buyer imports.

Operators patch,
Fishers cast,
Penpals drop,
The driver leads,

Soldiers hold,
Rebels cross,
Lawyers sign,
Dreamers blur,
And age defines.

Slamplified

The crack of wood on wood
Reverberating just
A little longer now,
The clutter won't absorb
Our babel anymore.

If I played back the tapes
Of all this room's soundscapes:

Your rustling sketchpad's waltz,
The locksmith's faulty key
Jangling while you sleep,
Guitar strings tuning, snap,
My chatty keyboard's tap,
The cat's claws on the chair,
A Plastic photo's album shear,
A glass of broken beer,
The neighbors' romps upstairs,
Your brush through tangled hair,
The last words spoken here.

A bit of trivia
That I once overheard:
It wasn't relevant
Until, really, tonight --
That "noise" and "nausea"
Derive from the same word

It's as Ironic
As the phrase "family room",
I realize,
Since what really sickens
Is the silence
That pervades
With slammed goodbyes.